No License for Badass in Texas

I benched consecutive sets of 175 today, eight reps the first set, only seven the second. This officially makes me hot s*%^ around the gym. I deal with my new prestige gracefully, with dignity, strutting about the gym floor (always within mirror reflection), my arms slightly bent, my elbows pointed out. I know the honnies dig muscly types like myself. They're drawn to me like Wifezilla is to Sawyer, the Kid Rock wannabe on Lost. They pretend not to stare at me but I know they sneak furtive glances. Dodge to their feint, I deliberately drop my towel and bend over to pick it up, all for their benefit. When I stand back up, I notice the gym honnies do a great job feigning disinterest. Most aren't even looking my way. But I know they looked. Oh yes, I know.

When I start doing reps of 185, I'm going to have to fend them off with my rolled up wife-beater shirt; sweat-logged, it's got surprising heft to it. It has occurred to me, as it must you as well gentle reader, that I might have to slow down my rapid strength gain until I'm better able to control the sheer power I'm harnessing; there's no licensing procedure for badass in the state of Texas. The public at large just has to trust that people like me responsibly manage the raw, carnal strength that we develop, mine directly from a strict regimen of power lifting, Mountain Dew, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.